Author Information
Woodlore
Lofty ideals seem to have no place
In my splintered life of the now
As a green youth how they abounded-
To them all others were to bow.
It was a long job to hew them down
Hacking and chopping away
So all that is left is whittled bits,
For everyone joined in the fray.
No problem not seeing forest for trees
Or removing logs from the eyes.
Those tall spires of idealism
Are battered stumps, downed from the skies.
O ye great butchering lumberjacks
Decimating once verdant growth,
Swagger on to others' fertile woods-
Do your job with cheer- and my oath!
